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SONGS FROM THE PLAINS 



BY 

EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD 

Author of "A Book of Dear Dead Women," "The 

Garden of Desire: Love Sonnets to a Spanish 

Monk," and one of the translators of 

Gogol's "Evenings in Little Russia" 




BOSTON 

SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 

1917 






Copyright, 1917 
Shehman, French & Company 



4 ip- 

MAY -3 i9l7 
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TO THE OLD HOME ON 
THE PLAINS AND TO 
THEM WHOM I HAVE 
LOVED WHO ARE DEAD 



FOREWORD 

This volume of verses is called " Songs from 
the Plains " — not because of any especial ap- 
plicability as regards content, but because the 
verses it contains were written upon the plains 
when the writer was about twenty years old. 
The verses belonging to a later period are the 
sketches made in New Orleans and Kansas City, 
the sonnet written in the British Museum, the 
improvisation to Kubelik, " The Book of the 
White Peacocks," and West Indian verses. 

E. W. U. 



CONTENTS 
LYRICS 

PAGE 

The Camel Bells 1 

The Sphinx 2 

The Chapel 6 

Fancy 8 

To the Rain Nymph 9 

Do You Remember? IS 

Song of the Scarlet Flame 16 

Nocturn 17 

" Homines Transeunt: Veritas Manet " . 18 

Comedy 20 

Jocosa Imago 21 

The Arab 22 

A Christmas Prayer 23 

An April Meditation 25 

Sea Moods 27 

Habana! 29 

An Antique Love Prayer 30 

Kansas Sky in Midsummer 32 

Kubelik 33 

Analogies 35 

The Plains 36 

The Shadow 37 

Thine Eyes 40 

Songs to an Hungarian Opal. I, II, III, 

IV .... • 41 

Warrior to Halfred the Skald .... 45 

Dance Song 46 

A Portrait 48 

The House Where I Was Born .... 50 

A Little Shabby Room 52 

Welt Weh 53 



SKETCHES MADE IN NEW 

ORLEANS page 

Prairie Tremblante 57 

To a Nun 58 

New Orleans 59 

SKETCHES MADE IN KANSAS 
CITY 

The Beggars 63 

Looking North on Ninth Street ... 64 

Petticoat Lane in Spring 65 

PORTRAITS 

Portrait of a Tragic Actress .... 69 
Mary Stuart in Prison Meditates upon a 

Youthful Portrait of Herself ... 72 

Portrait 75 

Coins of Egypt 79 

Portrait of the Youthful Buddha . . . 81 

Evening Star 87 

SONNETS 

The Book of the White Peacocks ... 93 

The Tropic Night 97 

Flamingoes 98 

To the Condor 99 

The People of the Book 100 

The Superman 101 

To the Demeter of Gnidos 102 

Fancy 103 

TRANSLATIONS 

NOCTURN 107 

To Leucone Ill 

To Pyrrha 112 

To a Little Maiden 113 



PAGE 

To Myself 114 

To Lesbia 115 

To My Page 116 

The Infinite 117 

Venus of the Sweet Water 118 

To the Mountains 122 

Song 123 

Night Song 124 

A Painter 126 

Antony and Cleopatra 127 

The Tepidarium 128 



LYRICS 



THE CAMEL BELLS 

No house have I of an hundred towers — 
One room 'neath a swallow's nest — 

No leaf-filtered light from fragrant bowers, 
But a window that fronts the west. 

Nor land nor ancestral wealth is mine, 
Nor castles where swings the sea, 

No worth which the purse-proud may divine, 
Since no servants bow to me. 

I have bartered it all and all envy I stop, 
Nay ! — I pity — some can not see 

My twin palm trees of the feathery top 
In the Land of Poesie, 

Nor the tinkling camels when day is done, 

With their caravans of thought, 
Out of the East where was born the sun, 

Nor the treasures they have brought, 

Nor lure of the flickering paths of fire 

That damask the desert sand, 
Nor pale mirage of the soul's desire, 

Where the ancient palm trees stand. 

All I've bartered for this, to regret put stop, 
Thrown away what the miser sells, 

In return 'neath the palms of the feathery top 
Let me wait for the camel bells ! 

m 



THE SPHINX 

Like rain the ages shift and shift. 

How came you by my window here 

Past which these northern waters flow, 

My pallid sphinx, my demon dear, 
My porphyry pale cameo? 

I like your face against the rain 
So white across the hills adrift, 

Your dark, dark face which passions stain ; 
The rain — ages that shift and shift. 

As idly here we chat or sit, 

You jest with scornful eyes that shine; 
I dream ; the beauty great of it — 

Your moulded chin's pure antique line. 

Yet grief and anger play their part, 

Naught, naught of love for me I trace, 

As here beside your empty heart 
I write the wonder of your face. 

Like rain the ages shift and shift. 

Inscrutable and sad and stern 
Upon the carven couch you lie, 

Bright orange cushions by you burn, 
And dusk drops down the western sky. 

m 



Inscrutable, inviolate, 

My Sphinx, my silent, soulless one, 
With eyes like some foreboding fate, 

What is it that you'd have undone? 

What is it that you seek in vain, 

With eyes that pierce the darkness through, 
Is it that ancient Nilus plain, 

The desert where fell not the dew? 

If that you seek then look on me, 

Since sacrifice is still my part, 
My Sphinx, look now and you shall see 

The desert you have made my heart. 

Like rain the ages shift and shift. 

Man are you, animal, cat, sphinx, 

Immobile here within the gloom, 
With lifted lip curled like a lynx, 

And pallid as the face of doom ? 

You care not that the night is sweet, 
And wet, warm winds veil low the sky, 

Nor silent at your folded feet 
With longing lips I'm sitting b} r . 

Brown topazes of Spain your eyes, 
Of alabaster is your face, 
[3] 



Rich-limned in shadow such as lies 
Upon some old Egyptian vase. 

Such meager chastity of line, 
Such sadly enigmatic mouth, 

Curved, scornful, proud, as we divine 
In dying races of the South. 

You are so subtle, sweet, so cold, 

So amber lidded and so rare, 
Poised o'er the dusk like smoke up-rolled, 

With your detached, archaic air. 

Like rain the ages shift and shift. 

Nor Satyr, Faunus, Pan, you knew, 
Nor wet and wayward woodland way, 

Nor quiet trees the light shines through, 
Nor meadows fragrant with the hay. 

For pipe and flute you did not care, 
Nor rustic song and dance at e'en, 

Nor in the gloaming wander where 

The laughing nymphs by waters lean. 

Nor pause beneath some yellow star 
To dream of wonders of the sky, 

Where springtime's jonquil maidens are, 
And things we long for most seem nigh. 
[4] 



No Grecian blood flows in jour veins, 
No careless joy in simple things; 

Upon your face therefore remains 
The trace of somber visionings. 

Like rain the ages shift and shift. 

In palace, court, in market square, 
The temple, and the seething street, 

Within the forum, everywhere 

Where restless human masses meet, 

When Fate throws gage of gain or loss, 

When through Birth's gates or Death's we 
race, 

Within the shadow of the Cross, 
Is found your pale and tragic face. 

Like rain the ages shift and shift. 



[5] 



THE CHAPEL 

My heart is a twilit, dim chapel, 

Where an altar stands barren and lone, 

And over it bends not The Merciful One, 
But a statue of Fate in stone. 



By the altar in silence are standing 
The pale priests of dead desires, 

Their shadowy hands outstretching 
Toward the ashes of passion's fires. 

On the walls I have hung up the symbols 

Of all that I wanted to be, 
As the ship-wrecked Greek in the temple 
Hung his clothes to the God of the 
Sea. 

In the mid-aisle a grave lies open, 
And the mouth yawns black and deep, 

There the self of me I have buried, 
And the dreams the youthful keep. 

But the windows of this my chapel 

Rim the sky and the old, old earth, 
Where despoiled of trappings of the liv- 
ing 
I am one with the pagan earth ! 
[6] 



Now I offer the pagan's offering — 
A soul that loves beauty alone — 

And the cruel Fate above bends down 
With a smile on the face of stone. 



m 



FANCY 

Outside my door to-night there stands 
A steed that's winged with fire, 

And his restless feet shall bear me 
To some Land of Heart's Desire. 

There's a message in the mid-night, 
And with love the wind's a-wing; 

Every star shall tell it to me 

While I down the darkness swing. 

I must onward ! Fancy's calling ! 

With the prairie dawn I'd be, 
By the gem-sweet emerald islands 

Where a great sea flashes free. 



[8] 



TO THE RAIN NYMPH 

Hail! thou silver-footed Ram, 
Vagabond of sea and plain, 
Loved of Thetis long ago 
Where Ionian waters flow! 

Silver Nymph, I've seen thee gayly 
Dancing on the barren prairie, 
Where no bright-eyed water gleams, 
Where are no brocaded streams. 
Fast thy light feet pattered down 
On dried grasses burnt and brown, 
While thy cloud-gown seemed to be 
Weaving scenic melody. 
Its wild, flutt'ring dance-veils among 
I found childhood scenes outflung. 
Visions of a land where lean 
Sweeter skies than here are seen, 
Where more oft thy sisters meet 
With their joy-diamonded feet. 
In thy floating gown outrolled 
I've found pictures manifold : 
Seen the calm, turquoise twilights 
Zante paints on sea-girt heights ; 
Seen bright-breasted Naiads link 
Wanton arms by some stream's brink, 
And faint, coral like, far trees 
Such as bend o'er storied seas 
Shading ancient palaces. 

[9] 



Vagabond though thou mayst be 
Still thou dreamst of Thessaly. 

Hail! thou stiver-footed Rain, 
Vagabond of mount and main, 
Loved of Thetis long ago 
Where Ionian waters flow! 

Grandly faring, Nymph, I've found thee 

With the mountains grand around thee, 

Stately- robed, white-stoled, and tall, 

Silencing the torrent's call 

And the black Pine's envious rage 

At thy classic heritage. 

Stern, majestic, mystical, 

Heading a processional 

Of great-gestured white-clad forms, 

Solemn Goddess of the Storms, 

I have seen thee sweeping down 

Where the dark abysses frown, 

Heard the elfin echoes greet thee, 

Seen the forests sway beneath thee, 

And the wildest mountain god 

Worship where thy feet have trod. 

Hail! thou silver-footed Rain, 
Vagabond of sea and plain. 
Loved of Thetis long ago 
Where Ionian waters flow! 

[10] 



When, O ! Nymph, the Sovereign Sea 
Sends his cold command to thee, 
Straightway is a fury born 
Out of night and strife and storm. 
Thy hands passionately each 
Seize the rain's white cruel leash, 
With which in thy rage and pain 
Thou dost lash again, again, 
The untamed, resentful Sea. 
Pictured in my memory 
Is thy wan, pain-furrowed face 
Robbed of its old classic grace, 
Thy tempestuous hair unbound, 
With the baleful lightnings crowned, 
With the flashing of black wings, 
Where some stormy sea-bird swings, 
And thy form a frown of light 
'Gainst the ocean's green mid-night. 

Hail! thou silver-footed Rain, 
Vagabond of mount and main, 
Loved of Thetis long ago 
Where Ionian waters flow! 

Thou hast been best loved by me 
Where the snows fall heavily, 
And a grey horizon's rim 
Hems the northern valleys dim. 
There, o'er mountain meadows misting 
Oft I've watched thee at thy trysting 
[11] 



With the Spring ; loved well the grace 
Of thy laughing, tear-bright face, 
And thy flower-decked daisy gown, 
Tulip-fluted up and down; 
That strange joy that comes with thee - 
Haunting sense of things to be; 
Flitting perfumes of delight 
Drift across my face at night, 
Flung from wings that none may see 
Of some shy flower-deity 
Who to thee the censers swing, 
Violet-slippered Nymph of Spring! 
Sweet thy folded eyelids are, 
Dark the eyes beneath with far, 
Far, far thoughts of other days, 
Of dim, fragrant mountain ways, 
And a singing purple sea. 
Vagabond though thou mayst be 
Thou dreamst Spring and Thessaly ! 



[12] 



DO YOU REMEMBER? 

Do you recall how in the dawn of the ages 
We met and played by a primal sea, 

Ere life had so many forgotten pages, 

And you were both husband and lover to me? 

How we frolicked and romped in the glad sea 
spaces 
Beneath a younger sun than men know to- 
day, 
And our laughter rang sweet in the hollow 
places, 
Where the swinging tides had slipped away? 

How maddened with joy and the zest of living 
In the warm, blue night you swam out to 
sea, 
How I called and called you, with what mis- 
giving, 
Lest you should not come back to me? 

But you laughed and the bright, bright waves 
were still singing, 
And the joy in my heart was like to pain, 
When out of the deep came the sea winds 
bringing 
The rush and the roar of the tides again. 
[13] 



Do you recall how in the years that came after, 
When we had climbed back to the light and 
the sun, 

One day you heard a wild gypsy maid's laughter 
As you leaned for the lips of another one? 

Ah ! the scenes that flashed then from forgotten 
ages, 

Set tingling what old, strange, flesh-memory, 
Turned back some of life's forgotten pages 

Toward a blue sea-night of the past and me! 

Then off, off again for new worlds and more 
living — 
I was only a gypsy ! It could not be ! — 
But my heart was brave and bore no misgiving 
When I set out again for the stars and 
the sea. 

And that Roman night — and the wild torches 
streaming — 
Red roses that drop from a roof like rain, 
And a Syrian slave pale as marble there 
gleaming, 
And you kiss her again and again and again. 

Doors that burst open — there grouped Greek 
girls bearing 
Fresh-plucked purple iris whence shakes the 
dew, 

[14] 



Shakes bright as the joy in my heart at your 
daring, 
At the old lost touch of the lips of you. 



[15] 



SONG OF THE SCARLET FLAME 

I go by a road that the red rose knows 

When the perilous wind of pleasure blows, 

And joys are so helplessly, sweetly brief 

They are cradled to sleep in the arms of grief. 

I go by the road of dancing feet, 

I go by the road of all things sweet, 

To a lonely place where a woman stands 

With leafless roses within her hands, 

And dreams of a face whose lips were red 

As multitudinous roses shed — 

But no sound comes, no word, no song, 

For here the silence lasteth long. 



[16] 



NOCTURN 

Ye who keep the Courts of Sleep 
In that ancient land and dim 

Where the crested mountains rim 
Plains the pomegranates steep, 

Let me see thy vales swept o'er 
With rich shrubs that lift to sight 

Blossoms bearing the delight 
Of the tints the sunset wore, 

And the splendor of the dusk, 
Drifting, drifting, darkly fair, 

Like gold pollen shaken there 
From some rose's heart of musk. 

Bend back once the bar of Fate ! 

Once let daylight eyes of mine 
Glimpse the unknown things divine 

Kept within thine ancient gate ! 

There no mark of Time is known, 

But the silence hath strange might — 

Deepening, brightening, like to light 
Makes a daytime all its own ! 

I would there Thought's ways report, 
When the will has lost its sway, 

And, like birds at break of day, 

Freed Dreams swarm thy pallid Court. 
[171 



"HOMINES TRANSEUNT: VERITAS 
MANET " 

— Kempis: "The Imitation." 
(Upon pride — pity — Gentle Christ!) 

Across the arabesques of Fate 

Which ages wrought of blood and gold, 
Across their glittering scrolls of hate 

Where agony was gem enrolled, 

Shines Thy white body, Gentle Christ! 

( Upon pride — pit y — Gentle Christ!) 

O'er Persia's desert dream of death, 

Her passionless eternity, 
Where painted stone to Time sayeth : 

" Behold us ! Brothers twain are we," 

Shines Thy white body, Gentle Christ! 

( Upon pride — pity — Gentle Christ!) 

Where penciled mummies masked with gold 
In pale and pointed chambers hide 

Faces defying change and mold 
And reason yielded place to pride, 

Shines Thy white body, Gentle Christ! 
[18] 



( Upon pride — pity — Gentle Christ!) 

Where Egypt defied death with stone, 

Granite debaucheries amid, 
Set Sphinx to scorn the desert lone 

And pinnacled, proud pyramid, 

Where sand wastes saw the caravan 

Of spices that arrest decay, 
That pitiful pageant Egyptian, 

Delight in decking death's arra} r , 

Shbies Thy "white body, Gentle Christ! 

Like falling stars, all else grows dim — 
Old wars — new wars ; all dip below 

With ruin of things that ceased to be 

When with Thee rose new worlds to know. 



[19] 



COMEDY 

Comedy, thou laughing Jade ! 

(Neither wife, widow nor maid) 

Thou wert born in Italy — 

Ah ! shake not thy head at me — 

Thou wert born there well I know 

Of Bacchante long ago, 

Who had wandered forth from Greece 

At the pagan gods' decease. 

For thy fancies nimbler are 

Than beneath a northern star ; 

There's a languor in thy grace 

Savors of a southern race, 

Of the Naxos' Nymphs at night 

Weary from the day's delight ; 

Ripples in thy name the vine, 

In thy laugh the limpid wine, 

On thy lips its red desire 

Winging words with wings of fire. 

Comedy, thou cornel}' Jade, 

Tarry here ! Be not afraid ! 

Of the gods the latest born, 

Straggler in the new world's morn, 

Lend us 3'et a little while 

Thy glad, gracious, Grecian smile! 



[20] 



JOCOSA IMAGO 

ECHO 

Jocose Image born of air, 
I know not how thou art fair, 
Sweetly though thy voice and well 
Hints of youth all lovable ! 
Where the purple iris shake 
By a forest shadowed lake, 
Where frail sedges faintly green 
Weave a fretful, wind-stung screen, 
And a lonely crane's slim height 
Sweet light etches in its flight, 
I have dreamed thee, tall and fair, 
Alert, toe-poised, listening there; 
A lip-trumpet hands up-fling 
For more ardent answering, 
When the dusk there floats along 
Love-belated lilt of song. 
Fain thy fluted lips which word 
Of their own have never heard, 
Would to love an answer bring, 
But instead they scornful fling 
Back with heartlessness the song, 
Cruel barbed mimicry along, 
Wherein love does vainly beat 
Like a captive dancer's feet. 



[21] 



THE ARAB 

Alien and all alone he stands, 
Dark wanderer on desert sands, 
Who loves nor home nor staid abode, 
But dreameth ever of the road ; 
Before his restless brain there float 
Wild visions of the ways remote: 
Magic mirage on hazy height, 
Sweet waters and tree-shaded light. 
Sinewy, white-clad is he, 
Statue of bronze and ivory. 
His gestures patriarchal seem, 
Majestic, stern, like vanished dream 
Of prophets of the days of old 
Or nature's king of kingly mold. 
His voice is vibrant, soft, and strange, 
An untaught lyre of widest range ; 
Within it sometimes seem to be 
Primeval sounds learned anciently ; 
His face is fierce and sad and thin — 
The desert's loneliness therein. 



[22] 



A CHRISTMAS PRAYER 

Father, I would ask of Thee 
Not great gifts nor e'en many ; 
Wealth nor fame nor beauty's dower, 
Nor that lengthened be life's hour, 
But some space of quiet days 
And clear eyes to see, always 
Through perspective calm of mind 
Things not of the personal kind, 
That throughout this brief, bright day 
In the World-Playground I may 
Love the laughter and the light 
Fearlessly despite the night. 
When the last game shall be done, 
And the players one by one 
Softly slip away to rest, 
(Surely after play that's best!) 

Though the game I have not won, 
Loitering from sun to sun 
O'er the wonder of Thy world, 
(Rivers ribbon-like unfurled!) 
I can say with soul's accord 
I have loved all beauty, Lord, 
And I pray this gift of Thee: 
When the Long Night comes to me, 
Shut between my lidded eyes 
Vision of a morn that lies 
Like a pearl in memory — 
[23] 



Iridescent — mistily — - 

When the world was sweet with spring 

And my heart was caroling, 

And I knew not death must be, 

Lord, I ask this gift of Thee. 



[24] 



AN APRIL MEDITATION 

Far below me lay the city, 

Sodden roof-sea grey and mute, 

Up from which the sad smoke struggled 
Like a prayer irresolute. 

Far above me hung the storm clouds 

Of a fretful April day, 
Blurring now my sea with rain drops, 

Bleaching now with pale sun's ray. 

In my heart, too, April weather, 

Clouds, mists, storms unchained and free, 

Strange lights flung from days departed, 
Shadow-fears of days to be. 

Frail as those faint, floating smoke-wreaths 
Was the good I'd purposed long, 

While the good deeds done were ever 
By some magic turned to wrong. 

And the soul in me was weary, 

Weary of the thankless strife 
Of aright the balance keeping 

Between duty, love, and life. 

Then I turned me from the window 
Heart sick of the rain drops' fall, 

Toward that pictured gift you sent me — 
There upon my chamber wall : 
[25] 



Giorgione's Concert — al fresco — 
Lo ! the joy of antique life ! 

Like a child by goblins frightened 
I awoke to antique life. 

As one from a yellow ball room 

Feels dawn-thrill of light flung wide, 

I thrilled to that white Greek woman 
Graceful by the water side. 

Straightway were my griefs forgotten, 
Blended my life's petty part, 

All the relativeness of living, 
In the absolute of art. 



[26] 



SEA MOODS 
l 

All night I heard the sea wind sing 
Its age-old song of wordless fear, 

All night I heard dim waters ring 
On rocky headlands far and near. 

This ancient house beneath the pine 

Trembled and shook like a soul in pain ; 

Upon my window fingers fine 

Beat rhythms of the phantom rain. 

The pine tree stretched gaunt arms in rage ; 

The wind of dawn was dagger keen ; 
Night's restless heart could naught assuage 

Of all that is or that has been. 

Toward the pale moon who fled in fright, 
Her wild cloud-gown outfloating free, 

I saw through the storm-stricken light, 
Lean the sad face of the sea. 



II 

Over it lay by the western sky-line, 

A pale grey sail on a pale grey sea, 
And whither 'twas bound I knew not nor cared 

not, 
Since its outward course was a sorrow to me. 
[27] 



The restless, weary ocean murmured 

Its ancient tale of a hopeless woe, 
And the eager wind like a wicked spirit 

Whispered to tell me the tale was so. 

But the wind cared not nor the waste of waters, 
Nor noisy gulls in their circling flight, 

Nor the purpling mists rolling in from the ocean 
As messengers of the wide winged night. 

For what was I in the great world-story, 
But a tiny dot on a shoreless sea, 

A pulse of life 'mid the tangled sea weed 
Of the deeps before and after me ! 

Then I said to my heart — " Brave Heart, have 
courage, 

For seas will be grey and seas will be blue, 
And over them float grey sails of sorrow, 

And over them drift bright sails to you. 

" So while I shall walk in the ways of the living, 
Alone — as the race of man has trod, 

Though the winds care not nor the wastes of 
water, 
All alone — I will be to myself a God." 



[28] 



HABANA! 

Habana! 
To me ripples in thy name, 
The first fluent, splendid flame 
That the royal palm trees took 
When the tropic daylight came, 
And with shame, and with shame, 
All their bare, black banners shook. 

Habana! 
In thy name there seems to be 
Languid fans that wave to me, 
Soft eyes, velvet -black of glance, 
Feet retreating to advance, 
In the dance, in the dance, 
In a garden by the sea. 

Habana! 
Fragrance of the tropic night, 
Word evocative of might, 
In this tongue so like the flight 
From youth's scarlet mouth of song, 
Or a swallow winging south 
To some land of lost delight. 



[29] 



AN ANTIQUE LOVE PRAYER 

(Apologies to an Italian poet.) 

A white dove, Aphrodite, from Paphos, I 

Would bring unto thee, 
As unblemished and as bright as thyself when 

First born of the sea ; 
A woven reed-basket of roses 

Whose leaves tremble yet 
From the Anio's head long down-rushing, with 

Its spray still are wet ; 
Twin pearls from the fabled Hydaspes, round, 
and 

So mistily white, 
They glow like thy bared breasts at evening, 
when 

Is moonless the night; 
A conch-shell pinkly fluted and polished 

To place in thy car, 
That its pink throat the sea's song may keep 
for thee 

When winging afar; 
Wine, purpling, smooth tasting, thrice filtered, 

In a crocus crowned cup, 
To mirror back sweeter thy visage, when 

Thou bendest to sup; 
These gifts, Aphrodite, do I hasten 

To bring unto thee, 
If thou wilt guide him who from Crete starts to 
cross 

[30] 



The Carpathian Sea — 
Therefore scorn not this lute ! Its fresh strings 
have learned 

Not of sorrow nor woe, 
And grant that my youth may be like it — and 

That fair Crete winds blow ! 



[31] 



KANSAS SKY IN MIDSUMMER 

Soft as the sheen of those wondrous turquoises 
Which Herod for Queen Mariamne bought, 
Fabulous gems from the heart of far India, 
Found where Himalayan snow-waters flow, 

brought 
By slow caravans down the great highways that 

lead 
From the roof of the world to the plains; and 

thought 
To be royally blue as the sad queen's sweet eyes. 

Bright as the bells of blue Palestine lilies 

That stand with bowed heads by the Galilee 
Sea, 

Plucked by pale maidens at morn and at eve- 
ning 

And twined into crowns that are worn need- 
fully 

'Neath the heat at high noon when the sun's 
rays are fierce, 

And the land all blotted with light like the 
sea — 

The sad, shadowless, shelterless, Galilee Sea. 



[32] 



KUBELIK 

(An improvisation written in the theater.) 

'Cross the Hortobogzyer Czarda 
When I heard Kubelik play 
I saw riders dash away — 
Horses like the storm wind fleet, 
Thunderous their tossing feet ; 
Overhead an eagle's cry, 
Pusta levels flashing by, 
Long whips curling snake-like there, 
Wild niancs floating on the air, 
As Czikos and Gypsy ride 
EmulousW, side by side. 

Lo ! above them in the sky, 
Threatening, black, a storm draws nigh. 
Laughing, they hail it with glee, 
In scorn whirl their whips wildly, 
Crying, " Storm-wings ! Now, now see 
How swift steeds of Hungary ! " 

'Cross the Hortobogzyer Czarda 
Like winged fiends the horses go. 
To the flashing of their four feet 
Even the lightning scemeth slow. 
Their faces grow strained and thin, 
Hard breath draws the nostrils in, 
Muscles tense of moulded steel 
Neither whip nor spur can feel. 
[33] 



Swift behind the sharp wind rides, 
Its dark wing the daylight hides, 
And its voice is hoarse with wrath, 
Loudly then the riders laugh : 
" Slothful are thy wings to win ! 
Look ! — the Hortobogzyer Inn, 
And the Pusta wet with rain ! 
Dust dry is my horse's mane ! 

Hei die Czar da, 
Hei, I say ! 

When I hear 

Kubelik play ! 



[34] 



ANALOGIES 

TO MY FUTILE FANCIES 

Beneath my soul's glass ye are seen 
Like pale nuns who overlean 
Timidly great walls at e'en; 

Or sea-weeds fine cut as thyme 
Which through lambent waters climb 
But at touch fade into slime ; 

Pensive flower-moons — shy primrose, 
Folded in a garden's close 
Where the fiercest sunlight goes; 

Faded women who draw nigh 
To great mirrors where they sigh 
When the wind sweeps rose leaves by. 



[35] 



THE PLAINS 

The plains they are barren, wind-beaten and 

lone, 
And the green of the grass has grown grey as 

the ground, or the stone, 
And the blue bends above them as chaste and 

austere and as stern 
As are pitiless eyes that have loved not, and 

may not of love learn. 

In long lines above them the clouds stretch, 
then hasten away, 

Cloud-coursers pursuing forever horizons that 
change and that sway, 

As fleeting and false as their shadows that fol- 
low in vain 

The call of those fairer horizons where lingers 
the rain. 

There are no memories here of the sweetness of 

days that have been, 
Naught of life has here blossomed, nor the 

flowers of love, nor of sin, 
And naught but the winds have known joy here 

when they paused to take rest 
On the breast of the barren grass-ocean, that 

bars east from the west. 



[36] 



THE SHADOW 

I will knock at the doors of thy soul, 

I, King Fear and Disease, 
I will blot out the light of thy life, 

Bio! thy joys to cease. 

I will shadow the gladness of youth 

With the trappings of woe, 
And people the daylight with visions 

The sane do not know, 

And decree on the dim border-land 

Of two worlds that thou dwell, 
Soul-sick with that space-vertigo 

Of which mountaineers tell ; 

With the winds of the height in thine ears, 
And thine eyes blurred with light, 

Thou shalt ever take shadow for substance, 
Mind-darkness for night ; 

The world of the real and the Avorld which 

Thine own visions win, 
Yet neither shall yield to thee, homeless, 

Firm dwelling therein. 

'Mid the bright ways of day thou shalt walk 

With a dream in thine eyes, 
And deafened thine ears with wild washing 

Of waves that arise 

[37] 



From that fathomless ocean of phantoms 

That foams at thy feet, 
And despite the red blood of thy youth 

Thou shalt hear its waves beat. 

'Mid the music and joy of the dance 

When Love's voice calls to thee, 
Chill mists from its waters shall whisper: 

Oh! memento mori! 

I will knock at the doors of thy soul, 

I, King- Fear and Disease, 
When the dream men call Youth has passed o'er, 

I will enter at ease. 

As once windows of Baian villas were 

With silver strings strung, 
From which wandering sea-winds at night time 

Strange melodies wrung, 

So the sensitive nerves of thy body 

Shall an instrument be, 
Where my will may make music madder 

Than a Paganini, 

Strike silent the voice of the world, 

And thy pleasure and pride, 
Over all in the end fling my banners, 

I will not be denied ! 

[88] 



The infinite depths of thy being 

Shall do honor to me, 
A triumphing Caesar home-coming 

Comes less royally. 

Nor the dark nor the day of thy sorrows 

Shall send thee surcease, 
When I enter and claim my own, 

I, King Fear and Disease! 



[39] 



THINE EYES 

Thine eyes are lapis lazuli, 

The richest, deepest, cruelest blue, 
No turquoise smiles there happily 

Nor radiant hearted sapphires hue, 
The mystery of the moonless mine 

Where all lies hidden from the day 
Can equal not these eyes of thine 

Nor half so cruel be as they. 

Behind thy gem-hued Irish eyes 

There dwells naught that can pleasure me, 
Nor love nor tenderness there lies, 

Passionate thought nor phantasie; 
Emotion ne'er will deepen them, 

Nor grief star into dewed blue-bell, 
And yet I love them — I love them — 

And thee — not wisely — but too well ! 

Such eyes as these bronze Buddha wore — 

Blue, pitiless, and hard and sweet — 
When pilgrims thronged the temple door 

To pour their hearts out at his feet, 
And thus while I pour mine — in vain — 

Quite hopelessly as they to thee, 
Changeless, clear, gem-sweet, cold, remain 

Thine eyes of lapis lazuli. 



[40] 



SONGS TO AN HUNGARIAN OPAL 



" Was it an opal, or was it a sleeping woman clad in 
lustrous gauzes?" — "The Opal Isles." 

Soul of the North and its frosty starlight 
Over leagues upon leagues of encrusted snow, 

Where through the silver-pale Arctic night 
Lonely ice-mountains green-gleaming glow. 

Soul of the South and its languorous moonlight 
On seas myriad-eyed with phosphoric beams, 

Where fish iridescent, on wings gem-bright, 
Drift noiselessly as the ghosts of dreams. 

Soul of the West and its spacious sunlight, 
Where the great grass-ocean bends beaded 
with dew, 

And the sun paints color-ripples as bright 
As those I have seen in the heart of you. 

Thou elfin Gem ! Thou witch's Soul-casket ! 

Thou crystal Coquette, rayed rainbow Sun, 
Circlet bounding the world's color splendor, 

Thou art soul of all gems, yet like to none! 

II 

You were a Sea King's daughter I now recall, 
Whom a proud prince loved so well 

[41] 



He lured you out of your crystal hall 
In a palace of earth to dwell. 

Oh! great was his love, for his jeweled gifts — 
see! — 

Have left glints in your soul to-day, 
Which flash out and flame regretfully 

As of old when his love got way. 

Or ever the months had grown to a year 

You tired of your stately home ; 
His whispered words became less dear 

Than the song of the wild sea-foam. 

His passionate youth served not to tame 
The white wraith of sea-deep eyes, 

Which darkening, brighten, and shift like flame, 
And where strange love-magic lies. 

You broke his heart and his glad youth died, 
For the Sea's own child are you — 

It has set a sign not to be denied 
On the lips and the throat of you. 

Ill 

MILD A 

(To the woman who sleeps in the heart of the opal.) 

Thou dreaming woman wrapped in gold tissue 
From crown of soft coiled hair to folded feet, 
[42] 



From gemmed, small hands to half closed eye- 
lids sweet 
Whence gleams the joy-light that thine old 

life knew, 
Throw off that tangling gauze of sun-beam 
hue! 
Thou shalt not sleep for aye! It is not meet. 
O ! fair, white feet for love-ways made most fleet ! 
I would not have thee live as prisoners do ! 

Ah ! yes . . . the curse ! Thou mayst not move, 
My Sweet! 
Yet soul unfettered flashes word to mine 
Of unrest passionate, longings divine, 

Of a dim, upland dawn for love's quest meet, 
And of a lithe young reaper 'mid the grain 
From whose bright scythe down falls the dew 
like rain. 

IV 

Yes, yes, I know thee now ! Milda thou art, 

Of somber Slavic eyes of darkling green, 
Like night on rivers that to southward lean 
While waves fuliginous the darkness part ; 
The same mysterious, gold goddess thou art, 

Whose beauty bringeth death if once but seen 
Fair framed within the sword-like lightning's 
sheen, 
For Queen of Love and Death at once thou 
art. 

[43] 



Deny it not with cold, white, baleful face, 
And frosty flashing of thy sea-green eyes ! 

Deny it not ! Within them pictured lies 

A fair-haired youth thou lovedst for a 
space. . . . 

! cruel Milda ! On his silent eyes 

The seal of death — and of thy kisses lies ! 



[44] 



WARRIOR TO HALFRED THE SKALD 

Sing us that old song of thine, 
Of the drink that is redder than wine, 
That men drink by the sword blades' shine 
When the hurtling armies meet ! 

Kindle our courage to-night 
With a song of the blood-eagle's bite, 
Of his dew-winged and awful flight 
When red are sped shafts and fleet! 

Sing of the wine-red rain, 
Its riot — rapture — o'er the plain, 
Of the glorious death of the slain 
When death than life is more sweet ! 



[45] 



DANCE SONG 

O Pepita Valmarina, once again ! — that 
Spanish step, 

Which you danced in old Sevilla as the mid-night 
paled to morn ! 

O that magic maze of motion with the white 
arms up-ward flung, 

While the fingers pointed downward to a slip- 
pered foot thrust out! 

Then your teeth gleamed white — I saw them ! 

— in the passion of the dance. 

O Pepita Valmarina, once again ! — that Span- 
ish step! 

Send the southern night upon me, sweet with 
spray-like sound of strings, 

And mad music made of motion and the 
rhythmic blood of youth ! 

Make the currents of my being move to you, my 
Queen of Night, 

While the purple dusk grows paler and the dawn 

— it is not yet ! 

O Pepita Valmarina, all my youth lives in your 

dance, 
In that sleepy Spanish city with its Moorish 

balconies ; 
There the Great Enchantress found me with 

love's glamour in my eyes, 
[46] 



Cast her strongest spell upon me woven out of 
youth and love. 

O Pepita Vahnarina, once again — that Span- 
ish step ! 



[47] 



A PORTRAIT 

I wouldn't mind a bit, my dear, 

If I could look like you, 
Like to a Dresden figurine 

With eyes of saddest blue, 

Wherein lies such a plaintive lure 
Of wistfulness — regret — 

Such haunting sweetness — weariness 
That one may not forget. 

A pout of reddest petulance 
The mouth — 'tis not amiss 

To say you're best described by 
A glance and then a kiss. 

I'd like to know the vanished lives 
That gave to you this air, 

So feverish, pale, so shadowed 
And withal so debonair. 

Your figure's so petite, so mince, 
Formed with such dainty care, 

And yet held haughtily erect, 
But with such childish air. 

You suit not well our modern ways, 

You do not fit the age, 
I'd like you in old Dresden silks, 

En train, held by a page, 
[48] 



Fluttering a fan made by Van Loo, 
While your silk-slippered feet, 

Flash their gem-studded heels down halls 
Where knights and ladies meet, 

While some one at a clavichord — 
Perchance when Louis was king — 

Played quaint and tinkling music 
For your weary, bored, dancing; 

I wouldn't mind a bit, my dear, 

If I'd been there with you, 
To sigh my soul out like a king 

O'er such sad eyes of blue. 



[49] 



THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN 

A river, ran behind it 

And the meadows spread before, 
And majestic, purple mountains 

Threw their glory on the door. 
In the yard grew china-asters, 

Buttercups and hollyhocks, 
And the wild Canadian lilies 

Nodded stately from their stalks. 

Brief and bitter sweet the summer 

Round the house where I was born, 
All the pathways through the woodlands 

Showed fresh splendor every morn ; 
Oh ! so strangely sweet the springtime, 

With the vales mist-hung and dim 
When the shrill-voiced, soft-winged fledgelings 

Saw the great sun's golden rim. 

'Twas a quaint, white, old-time dwelling 

Buildcd in the long ago, 
Whose sharp gables in the winter 

All but buried were in snow ; 
Very well do I remember, 

In the chill, grey, northern day, 
The spinning wheel was busy 

As the winter winds at play. 



[50] 



It was in a peaceful valley 

In a chill and northern land, 
Where on bleak and wind-swept ledges 

Black the serried pine trees stand; 
Hill on hill rose to the mountains 

Where bright waters leaped day-long, 
And my childhood's sleep was cradled 

By a mountain river's song. 



[51] 



A LITTLE SHABBY ROOM 

In this little shabby room 

With its cheaply papered walls 

You do wonder I presume 

How I live whom Beauty calls ? 

Does the bird, pray, mind the bough 
Whence it springs unto the sky, 

Be it bare or flowered or how — 
Then why any more should I? 

Would you Beauty create — Art — 

Prison once or fix it well, 
In a palace keep your heart, 

But — mind — very humbly dwell. 



[52] 



WELT WEII 

I'm a stranger in the dwelling 

Where ray days of life are passed, 
In this proud, palatial dwelling 

With its endless rooms and vast. 
Never twice alike above me 

Outspreads fair the vault of blue : 
In the white day hangs above me 

Sapphire sea of wondrous hue; 
While the night lifts purple curtains 

Soft, mysterious and dim, 
Spangled o'er with jeweled star dust, 

For my soul to dwell within. 
And the dawn — a mist-white wonder — 

Wakes me 'neath a fairy dome, 
Peopled with strange wraith-like phantoms, 

While I never feel at home. 
For the east wall of my palace 

Spreads Aurora's rosy veil, 
And along its western courtyard 

Crimson sunsets seldom fail. 
To the north the white snow-marble 

Like a world's wall rises chill; 
To the south the swinging waters 

All the ways with music fill. 
Day and night throughout my palace, 

Free as singing winds do roam, 
On from room to room I wander, 

But I never am at home. 
[53] 



SKETCHES MADE IN NEW ORLEANS 



PRAIRIE TREMBLANTE 

(Seen from the railroad on entering New Orleans.) 

A stretch of swaying grasses sweeping by, 

A stretch of barren grasses bronzed and 
brown, 
No tufted trees, nor house, nor twinkling town, 

Grey overhead a silent, sullen sky : 
Long twisting inlets of the sea that lie 

Like tarnished mirrors for the dull sky's 
frown, 
Dim, moveless mirrors where the gulls fling down 

Their ghostly shadows as they sea-ward flv. 

At dawn alone and at the late sunset 

These waters live again so dead and dim; 

Rose splendors creep across them far and far, 
And while the tender twilight lingers yet 

A fire-flower blossoms upon heaven's rim, 
And lonely bayous answer star to star. 



[57] 



TO A NUN 

(Written to a beautiful nun seen on the streets of New 
Orleans.) 

From some ocean vast of sleep 
You, Sweet Sister, draw and keep 
In your eyes a peace so deep, 

I am shipwrecked at the sight, 
As when mighty billows smite 
Which the silences unite. 



[58] 



NEW ORLEANS 

In The City Care Forgot, 
I would just as lief as not 

Dream away these days of mine, 
Where the bending bayous shine 

And the wild birds of the sea 
Dream of oceans silently. 

In The City Care Forgot, 

Where its votaries come not, 

Something lingers still of France, 
Spirit high, inspired the glance, 

And the bubbling blood that knew 
Life and Laughter brothers true. 

In The City Care Forgot 
There is an enchanted spot 

By an ancient convent's door, 
Where year long the roses pour 

From some sacred fount forsooth, 
Scented sweetness forth of youth. 

To this same enchanted spot 
In The City Care Forgot, 

At the twilight I am near 

While the ancient bell tower here 

Pours like roses on the air 

Scented sweetness of a prayer. 

[59] 



SKETCHES MADE IN KANSAS CITY 



THE BEGGARS 

In the green-flecked gold of the April noon, 
Down Petticoat Lane the beggars croon 
Their pitiful prayers. 

Old, crippled, whipped grey by adversity, 
The spring sun shuns them nor seems to see, 
Nor shares with them ever its gayety. 

Falsely humble, remorseless, furtive, feline, 
Their thirst} r e} r es from dark doorways shine — 
" O give us a dime ! Please — please — a dime ! " 

In the green flecked gold of the April noon, 
Down Petticoat Lane the beggars croon 
Their pitiful prayers. 

Proud women drift past — Oh, gorgeously ! 
'Mid swirling silks, laces, bijouterie, 
The spring shares with them its gayety; 

Insolent, heartless, devoid of ruth, 
But their eyes keep the sad old plaint forsooth — 
" O give us our youth ! Please — please — our 
youth!" 

In the green-flecked gold of the April noon, 
Down Petticoat Lane the beggars croon 
Their pitiful prayers. 
[63] 



LOOKING NORTH ON NINTH STREET 

The alley is long and the walls are high, 

Through a windowed archway I espy 

A valley hung with a mist of blue — 

A distant, ethereal, magical hue; 

Midway a cart, with an orange gold pile, 

Whence the radiant sun of the south does smile ; 

Beside, the owner, whose rich curls are 

Like the bursting grapes of Malaga ; 

Of Spain's vineyards I dream, a gold-dusted 

stack — 
Like those black, black curls the wind flings 

back. 



[64] 



PETTICOAT LANE IN SPRING 

Down Petticoat Lane in the Easter-tide 
Floweth a river of silken sheen — 
Pink and purple and iris and green — 
And beside its frolicsome billows wide 
Frail nymphs of fashion are fondly seen, 
Down Petticoat Lane. 

Down Petticoat Lane in the Easter-tide 
The Spring Wind minces his airy way 
And tosses the foam of the silken spray, 
Down Petticoat Lane. 

High above the wise white clouds do glide 
On, on to the lands I have not seen, 
And their shadows rest Avith the touch serene 
Of the things that forever and ever abide 
On the fretful river's fleeting sheen 
Down Petticoat Lane. 



[65] 



PORTRAITS 



PORTRAIT OF A TRAGIC ACTRESS 

(An improvisation made upon seeing for the first time 
a portrait of Rachel.) 

The souls of the shaken multitude surge 
Up about her feet. And yet she is sad. 
Has she in touching all too narrowly 
Upon the world's great sorrows, never 
Wholly freed her heart from them, just as 
White cloth shows long the gloom upon it 
Of some blood-shaken liquid? And thereby 
Has she forfeited indeed forever 
The lightness and the gladsomeness of joy? 
Her eyes are weary ; and her face without 
Its joy-time mask is sad and dull like one 
From which the shamming rouge is washed 
Leaving pale, lifeless flesh. Her thought-life 
In the realm of passions and great tragedies 
Has fevered her and set upon her mouth 
The seal of an insatiable thirst. 
The selfsame look I find again on lip 
And throat of Constant's great Herodias, 
Thirst unquenchable that no tree-shadowed, 
Rock-sheltered water springs can ever still; 
Immortal thirst which long ago made this 
Our earth, for another just such woman's 

sake — 
The walls of Troy beside — royally 
Red, robed right resplendently, thrice dyed 
In blood and wine which are earth's joy-colors. 

[69] 



There are no passions and no sympathies 
That oft and oft have not swept o'er her face, 
As blighting winds, storm driven, sweep and lay 
In waste a land's fair, fertile freshness. 
All earth-fruits she has crushed against her 

mouth 
And found them savory and sweet, and stained 
Her hands with them, the better to learn peace. 
Her conscious self she can throw off just like 
A garment — old, out-worn — and clothe her- 
self 
Anew in other lives ; or better, 
She can cast off her very soul at will, 
As in springtime some soft sinuous snake 
Casts off its skin to deck itself anew. 
She has outlived her own life's memories 
To rise nightly new-born, forgetful of 
The past. And yet, I think, in doing this 
She has forever lost the thing called self, 
Entangled past all free, frank forth-faring 
In labyrinths of an unselfconsciousness, 
To realize some artist's dream of self, 
Until merely a mind is she that sees. 

Indelibly has each impersonation 
Upon her set its own sad, secret seal, 
Left fragments clinging to her of itself, 
So that she lives a life where changing souls 
Rise up and set like phantom suns in some 

[70] 



Mad poet's dreams, shone through with shifting 

thoughts 
And fears and hopes that haunt the hearts of 

men. 

Yet she is sad, thoughtful and weary. 
Too often, perchance, has she peered down 
The dizzy heights of crime in human hearts, 
Of deep despair, and griefs past bettering. 
In some illuminating flash of mind, 
Where realized thought is kin to pain, 
Perchance she has seen past the mystic place 
Where Being's heights and depths do touch and 

blend 
And circling make that which no man can read, 
Where right and wrong at last in peace are 

joined 
Together and make one. 

The curious masses have learned her face 
By heart, each trick of eye and lip and arm. 
They have dissected all her life beneath 
The gas light's glare. 



[71] 



MARY STUART IN PRISON MEDI- 
TATES UPON A YOUTHFUL 
PORTRAIT OF HERSELF 

I fancy on a day in aftertime, 

When this frail body here of mine long has 

Been dust, and my name's words become like 

faint 
Melodic sound of half forgotten songs, 
Upon a day, then, in the aftertime, 
Some mild mid-noon of May I'm fancying 
(Of one such other well I mind me now, 
Who am so sad, and, too, much older grown 
When all the world was white with hawthorn 

bloom 
And that blond, young trouvere first sang to me 
On bended knee amid the fields of France. 
I think from that mad melody my blood 
Took fire and flung thereafter o'er my mind 
Its flickered light.) Upon a mid-May noon, 
In some old palace court where once I dwelt, 
French folk will meet again ; talk languidly 
To rest them from their pleasures and the heat, 
And in that tongue which first taught love to me, 
Will speak of love; how it works weal and woe, 
And then of her to whom it worked all woe, 
And wonder was she fair, what was the look, 
And voice and speech of her who swayed men's 

blood 
As moons do sway the seas. And together 
[72] 



All light-heartedly, they will piece out the 
Broken fragments of my days, and with the 
Bright, silvered daggers of light laughter 
Stab these heart-wounds of mine. Yet some will 
Praise; but more will blame I think; yes, I am 
Very sure that men, not knowing me, will 
Blame the foolish fervor of my days, nor 
Pause to think how that false Florentine — 
She of soft slanting eyes and supple hands — 
Moulded my youth ; and once again tell o'er 
Those fatal loves of mine. Then with frou-frou 
Soft of silk attire, and laugh and jest and 
Fluttered fans, adown cool corridors they'll 
Go to some great gallery, from off whose 
Paneled walls French Queens in state look down, 

there 
Search my picture out and pierce it through and 
Through with greedy eyes to see if in my face 
The painter, prophetwise, foreshadowed fate. 
Beneath these youthful lidded eyes of mine 
They'll find frail falsity, and in the full red 
Underlip (Too red and full, they'll say!) 
Some wantonness ; thus will they read my face. 
O poor, poor face which then was innocent 
And fair, a living page for God to write 
Upon ! The while beneath my picture they 
Stand there, outside within the square a lute 
String sounds, and then a voice, singing that old 
Love song he made who loved me well. He sang 
It first the day I wore this pictured dress 
[73] 



And smiled to see my hair piled high within 

The jeweled net Italianwise; but when 

I placed the pendant pearl in front he frowned 

And broke his singing off, saying it pleased 

Him not at all to see above my eyes 

That symboled shadow of a tear. Oh ! could 

He see me now ! He'd find the face he loved — 

Whose gladness in his song — he said — was 

mere 
Translated sound, stamped all o'er and o'er and 
Bleached and marred with sorrow's sacred 

seal — 
A Queen well crowned with tears ! And thus 

as they 
Stand there in idle dallying before 
My childish face, wherein they read things God 
Put not there to read, that straying street 

singer 
Will come in — he, too, a blond trouvere — 
And pausing by my picture will call out, in 
Clear, fresh, youthful voice that over-rides the 
Jaded courtier group : "Of a truth she wa9 

fair! 
And sweet, too, she was withal, I think, for 
Ronsard once sang of her!" 



[74] 



PORTRAIT 

Tis thus that I would paint that face of his ; 
Fancy an ancient window frozen o'er 
In part, and faintly white, in part coldly, 
And — glimpsewise — as some might say, let- 
ting the 
Landscape in ; white, wintry world ; snow dusted 
Hills ; bare trees with arms upstretched in 

prayer ; 
Thin, bitter wind with sharp snow-arrows stung, 
And far away the green-grey flashing of 
A pallid sea. Against this window I 
Would picture him. A manly face in the 
First flush of youth and pride ; a head with dull 
Gold hair flung loosely back and lines 
Greek-like and pure, poised on a throat 
Whose muscled mould suggests an antique 

bronze. 
Ah ! you — you, whose soul loves beauty so — I 
Hear your quick acclaim and see your lifted 
Eyes. Some blond Icelandic King — you 

say — 
Since northern mists alone can color paint 
Like that ; and, too, such strength, such manli- 
ness, 
Such splendid youth ! Ah ! yes — 'tis life- 

caught at 
Its blossom time ! I hear it all — your 
Thrill of throat and word ! And yet I pray vou 
[75] 



Pause awhile — a trifle more this way move — 
There ! . . . there! — you've caught the light 

that shows it best. 
Now please you follow me who painted him. 

The hair's gold, there, where it thickest lies is 
A shade too pale, I think, as if some dead 
Star's light in dropping colored it. Yes, yes, 
I knew you'd say 'twas light flung from that 

cruel 
Green flashing sea ! — And then the cheek's 

red — was 
Ever blood color so cold as that? 'Tis 
Like that cruel red Velasquez's cunning 
Frosted o'er with magic touch before 
He flung it round Pope Innocent to 
Symbolize his soul. Note how compact and 
Closely made the skin's pores are; why, that is 
Granite flesh ! Think you those pale, grey eyes 

grew 
Ever deep and dark with tenderness, or 
Love, or sympathy, or warmed to sunny 
Hue in merriment? More — the chastity 
Of those sharp chiseled lines — the clear-cut 

nose — 
A trifle thin — I say — despite his youth ; 
And that faint line of red that draws the mouth. 
Ah! it was made to say most bitter things, 
To bite words off and leave envenomed thoughts ; 
Behind lip-lines like his never a heart 
[76] 



Can dwell! Those features fair were chiseled 

thus 
By outward working of the soul within. 
Can you not see how thought has frozen them ! 
No flush of soul-expansiveness, no glow 
Of love, — disinterestedness — of free, 
Frank, human fellowship ; nor yet indeed, 
Anger, nor jealous hate, nor righteous wrath, 
Nor torrential rush of passion's power — 
None, none of these — look you! — could come 

to mar 
That pictured passiveness, nor humanize 
That chill enamel there. My Friend, if to 
His feet the griefs of all the world should come, 
And tears flow forth as God sends forth his rain, 
It could not move so much as is one frail 
Thought's breath those cold, gold-lidded eyes. 

When I 
Stand here and look at him I realize 
By virtue of some subtle law of like, 
The thunderous silences of desert lands, 
The loneliness of old, dim Asian towns 
Where ages long the shifting sand has lain, 
Where grows no grass nor pleasant garden 

flower. 
That face is colder far than glacial winds 
That sweep an Arctic waste, and harder, — 

Aye! — 
More sterile — barrener — the heart than is 
A desert of Arabian anchorites. 
[77] 



Look I Look, My Friend ! — now that the sun 

is set 
And only chill, thin snow-light filters through 
That window there, and dulls the gorgeous glow 
Of him and freezes up his youth, — now, you 
Do surely see that that is the face of 
Cruelty! Tell me, how is it fair? 



[78] 



COINS OF EGYPT 

FOUR PORTRAITS 

I 

One day the Great Queen held them in her 

hands, 
And jingled soft from palm to satin palm, 
Yet heeded not their sound; deep plunged in 

dreams, 
A statue like time-tinted ivory 
She stood of silence sculptured and swift 

thought. 
'Twas mid-day and the land lay hushed with 

heat, 
Aglitter like some fallen Titan's shield, 
But naught of this saw she; with eyes fear- 
dark, 
Wherein all gathered life leaped up to live, 
She watched the Roman eagles eastward come, 
Heard Caesar say : " Armis xncwte vim! " 
From her limp fingers fell at that dread call 
These scattered coins down shrilling on the 

stone. 
This one which lay along her garment's hem, 
She stooped to reach — her wide eyes still fear 

filled — 
When lo ! at the cool metal's touch she waked 
And smiled, and down again looked steadfastly, 
For there, fine wrought upon the metal disk, 
Looked forth — the molded marvel of her face. 
[79] 



II 



Now these coins, struck when first a queen was 

she, 
Satyrius designed — Satyrius, 
Whose name for cunning chiseling was known 
Where'er the land-locked waters whispered — 

"Greece!" 
Ah ! well indeed did she remember him, 
The supple, blond, young Greek, who fixed 

beyond 
All fear of change that flower-fair youth of hers. 
And then in jesting guise upon the coin's 
Reverse this cornucopia he cut 
With quick, crisp strokes, that it might 

signify — 
Desired dispenser of all dear delights. 
Encircling this in Greek — " Queen Cleopatra." 
He when his work was done still lingered on, 
Begging her thus array herself, and thus — 
As Lesbian lute player, or low browed 
Theban maid from the fountain by Dirce, 
That his poor art might profit by her grace. 
But best did she recall the smothered rage, 
When he, oblivious of her queenhood, 
Looked up at her with eyes that saw her not, 
That paid no homage to her womanhood, 
That worshipped neither woman, love, nor 

queen, 
But only line — line's matchless majesty! 

[80] 



Ill 



Twice had the watches of the night been called, 
But still the Queen slept not. Ill tidings had 
The day's long hours of wars abroad brought 

her, 
And threatened murmurings of mutinies, 
And famine fears from Nilus' long delayed 
O'erflow, till care distraught, she slipped from 

off 
The scented cedarn couch, stole silently — 
A white form frail as floating river mist — 
Adown great night-dim corridors, and up 
Steep steps of massive stone, nor paused until 
She came where Amouthis kept watch among 
The stars. " O Priest of night and mysteries, 
I pray thee find if aught of ill forebodes, 
Read thou for me the writing of the gods ! " 
Before the mystic chart down bent the young 
Priest low for carefullest computation. 
And thus an hour in silence passed away. 
At length a low voice said : " Great Queen, I 

have 
Obeyed." " Well, what stands written there? " 

— " Thy death." 
" Thou liest, Priest ! Thou wouldst have gold, 

wouldst thou? 
Behold ! I pay." And down upon the chart 
She flung her girdle's purse. " Where is thy 

love? " 



[81] 



Years after this did she remember well 

The sad, grief stricken voice that made reply : 

" My Queen of Queens! The world's dome is 

not high enough 
To roof my great love in ! " 



IV 



From out the Queen's chamber gay voices came 
Blended in lively argument, like bright 
Winged birds achatter 'mong the boughs. At 

break 
Of day hither from Tyre a trader came 
With sea-wools woven wondrously ; soft silks 
Of Serica, robes — long sleeved — of Persian 
Make; tissues from Cos ; the wind cloth's wraith; 

veils 
Mist-fine broidered with pale acanthus, 
And regal purple fresh from Tyre, thrice dyed. 
Beside this shimmering sea of silks stood 
Cleopatra, while low crouched slaves upheld 
Great mirrors, metal-wrought, that she might 

judge 
The charm of changing color scheme, and thus 
Her maidens show some fresh draped folds fine 

grace. 
The tiny hands which scarce three days agone 
Had signed death sentences, now clapped for joy 
At each new combination, and bade to 
[82] 



Count out, in girlish glee, these carven coins 
To buy this robe, and this — and this — and 

this — 
Ah ! here not queen, empress, sun-chosen one, 
But greater far than all — mere womanhood. 



[83] 



PORTRAIT OF THE YOUTHFUL 
BUDDHA 

(A Memory of Acavagosha's Sixth Dream of the King.) 

Upon a mid-spring night when stars slip soft 
To morn, and crisp dawn-winds shivered among 
Sprayed silver mango boughs and moghra 

blooms, 
When hushed with fear were night-birds keen 

for prey, 
Awaiting with leaf-life the gift of light, 
Upon his couch lay King Suddhodana 
Dreaming the dream that aftertime made true. 
Upon the plain that southward lies six days 
From steepest summits of Himalayan snow, 
A tower of stone there stood, white as the snow, 
And ancient as the silent mountain's crown, 
A tower — he dreamed — in bright, green valley 

lands, 
A tower that leaped aloft until it dwarfed 
The white-horned mountain's shining crest 

of ice, 
And then o'cr-topped the clouds. About the 

tower 
A stairway, circling, climbed — likewise of 

stone — 
And there, upon the lowest step, the Prince 
Siddartha stood, with up-turned youthful face 
Whose glory filled dim Asia's heart with light, 

[841 



With generous hands out-held, from which rich 

gems 
Like rain dropped down, whose color was as 

sound. 
He watched him climb the staring height of 

stone — 
Up, up — through air that knew no shelter, 

shade, 
And thought the while how well it symboled life, 
Yet, dream-held, could not help nor hinder him. 
There as he climbed he feeble grew and old. 
His splendid youth dropped from him like a 

rose, 
And even his royal robe was dimmed to 
Pauper's rags, while richer, sweeter, grew the 
Jeweled rain, its light concealing him 
As if in giving he himself had died, 
Until upon the topmost pinnacle 
Lo ! — Buddha stood, and folded earth from sky 
To sea in gem-wrought mist that flamed like fire 
And touched earth's heart to joy. There was 

no death 
On land or sea that day. Dim, buried roots 
Felt warmth thrill them. Light swept through 

ocean's caves, 
And unformed things within the deeps of earth 
Felt premonition of a life to be. 
Dead crystals sealed in silences serene, 
Discolored, dulled, with dust of ancient death, 

[85] 



Thrilled back the gem-wrought prayer by 

Light's Lord made; 
And change they knew ; and thrilling more knew 

Then fear, faith, mystery and love — through 

love 
Swirled up toward life, and bore within their 

souls 
Safe sealed forever, that jeweled rain of Buddh. 

Thus was Fire Opal born, a memory 
Of him of cleanest crystal made whose heart 
Held Asia's love. And even now, whoso 
Looks long again upon it's changing disk, 
Shall hear Love's rain upon a world's dead 

heart, 
And song of gladdened things that greet the 

light, 
And know strange dreams like King Suddho- 

dana. 



[86] 



EVENING STAR 

When weary cattle hunt the homeward way, 
And tinkling bells down dusky lanes are heard, 
When nesting birds flutter uneasy wings 
Belated at some sound of daylight strife, 
Borne sharply on the soft sweet wind of night, 
Low in the sky, a-near the world's black rim, 
A-down the burnished roadway of the sun, 
Thou stealest silently, Sweet Evening Star. 

Night after night I watch thee come to glow 
With tranquil light within the blue serene, 
And wonder why for ages thou hast kept 
Thy watch within the sky. Art weary, thou, 
Of traveling o'er and o'er the endless ways? 

Of what use this bright pageantry of night 
Which thou dost herald forth? It can not be 
A mere display to dazzle eyes of them 
Who live but for a day, for that would be 
Most wanton mockery. What has become 
Of them who ages past from this dim earth 
Looked up to thee with love, laughter, longing? 
Do all things pass and of themselves leave not 
A single trace? Tell me, Sweet Evening Star, 
For thou must know upon thy throne in space! 

Night after night while youth is mine, from out 
This western window I look up to thee, 
[87] 



Blind wanderer, I, of earth, to thee, bright 
Wanderer of skies ; when I am old still 
Shall I come and dim eyed still upward look 
To ask the self-same question ; hopeful that 
Thou mightst pity thy true worshipper and 

flash 
An answer back across the void of night. 

But perhaps thou hearest not, art but a 
Strayed sky-spirit, whose bright light no 

grief of 
Earth can dim, and thy fate and mine the 

same — 
Both knitted inextricably into 
This weaving, raveling, world-substance wide 
Flung with giant strength upon shoulders of 

space. 
If this be true, then life and death are but 
Wild journey ings endless roadways a-down, 
And soon thou and I again, O Evening Star, 
Must say farewell for some new vagabondage. 

Nor Sage nor Scientist nor Soothsayer, 

By subtlest calculation can conceive 

What journey ings this fleshly body here 

Of mine has made in grass, flowers, and trees, 

Before — O my Sweet Evening Star ! — it 

came 
Unto the dignity of conscious life 
And greeted thee. Nor what long ages must 
[88] 



Again elapse, ages soul-dark spent in 
Wind-blown straying dust, in fluttering water 
reed, 

Evening Star ! — that know nor thee, nor 

thine — 
Nor what strange sense-survivals will remain, 
When, after climbing up, slow step by step, 
Dim, winding, patient ways of nature's growth, 
Again from some broad window to the west 

1 shall look forth and cry — Hail! Hail! — 

to thee. 



[89] 



SONNETS 



THE BOOK OF THE WHITE 
PEACOCKS 

A SEQUENCE OF FOUR SONNETS 
I 

Upon that night of pale and dreadful doom 

When Lady Macbeth felt the end was near, 
And brow and breast were dew-pearled fine with 
fear, 
And great winds echoed through the ancient 
room 
And multiplied the bending forest's gloom 

And swept across the lawns shadows so drear 
'Twas like dead faces beckoning here and here 
Which blackened over the bright garden 
bloom, 

She leaned forth from her window : " Woe 
is me! 
My joys. . . . See! See! . . . they pass 
across the night — 
Love, youth, and beauty — all the old delight ! " 

Then he who still obeyed her bent to see. 
Upon the black and velvet terrace height 

White peacocks sped with wings spread wide 
for flight. 



[931 



II 



Within that vale of mist of Proserpine 

Where all things gentle grow — the winds, 
waves, light — 
Where nothing has its old, first earth-born 
might, 
Where flowers can keep but only form and 
line, 
Regretful memories grow a thing divine, 

Flowers, fragrance, sun and summer fade 
from sight 
Into a vaguely sweet and soft delight 

Where efflorescences though hidden shine, 

There, Eurydice walks the shades among 

And drives her banded peacocks white as 
snow 
With dear, dear names which death can not 
destroy : 
" Thou — Orpheus' lute ! — arm-clasp — 
songs he has sung! 
Thou — kisses of his lips! Thou — eyes that 
glow ! " 
Thus on she drives the white, dead dreams 
of joy. 



[94] 



Ill 



Within the golden chambers of the moon 

Left barren and bereft of revelry, 
Since life had fled to spheres where life might be, 

One gorgeous giant peacock braved the noon, 
Flung blue and purple shades — an irised 
rune — 

O'er lonely gold ; his plumes outspread to see 
Their beauty multiplied so marvelously, 

And held with his reflection proud commune. 

But ever as he walked himself alone 

Bowed back at him from dome and floor and 
wall, 
None praised nor envied such rare beauty hurled 
Across the silence. Then his pride made 
moan. 
Grief whitened o'er him — wings, tail, crest, 
till all 
A ghost he glimmered in a gold dead world. 



[95] 



IV 



Queen Venus hath her doves as all men know, 

Minerva hath the owl, made Wisdom's king, 
The raven of the black and bloody wing 

Thor claims amid the polar ice and snow, 
But thou — Sweet Moon-Queen, of the long ago, 

Astarte, to whom Syrian maidens swing 
Their nuptial torches and their love vows bring, 

Astarte, hath pale peacocks, gemmed, arow. 

In amorous Sidon under nights of song 

She walks among them slim and white as they, 
Or bends her crescent brows where crystals 
swoon 
To deepen to dark drops, there lingering long 
To scan their pallid feather-dots and say : 

" Dim eyes that loved me by the mystic 
moon " ! 



L96J 



THE TROPIC NIGHT 

(Written by the Caribbean Sea.) 

Sweet Face of Beauty of the tropic night, 

That bends above these purpling seas which 
keep 
Within their silences spent dreams that sweep 

In phosphorescent silver into sight, 
Sweet Face of Beauty of the tropic night, 

That bends above dim palaces asleep 
In faded gardens, where the palm trees keep 

A weary silence from their watchful height, 

Oh! pour upon my soul your perfumed breath! 
Make always there the suns of youth to rise, 
Ensphere their spotted splendor in my eyes ! 
That when the } r ears shall claim me cold in 
death, 
They'll find me wrapped a dream within like 
this — 
A tropic mid-night and a garden's bliss. 



[97J 



FLAMINGOES 

Imperishable roses some would say 

Upon no black and earth-born bough abloom, 
But roses such as the faint dawns relume 

Within the Courts of Heaven with the day; 
A heaped up sweetness and a color play 

That call Queen Fancy quickly to resume 
Her picture-weaving on the ancient loom 

That banishes the work-day world away. 

Rare birds of flame asleep against the sea ! 

Such visioned richness of the deeps of joy 
Floats o'er thy wings that dreaming here I 
count 
O'er beautiful related things to thee — 
Silks, corals, pearls, conch-shells the waves 

annoy — 
From joy to joy upon thy wings I mount. 



[98] 



TO THE CONDOR 

Poised there against the cliffs no one can say 
Which is thy feathered self and which the 
stone, 
So harsh the outline, greyed, scarred, sad, so 
lone, 
Devoid of grace and sweetness, color play, 
As stern a substance of the air as they ; 

Cruel tentacles thy claws are, carved of bone, 
Black deeps within thine eyes where old winds 
moan 
And bitter sun-flecks sting a barren day. 

None take thy gaunt and flesh-streaked wings 
for flowers 
Which float in rippling rainbows of delight 
O'er happy gardens of the bird and bee. 

For thee no fleeting joy's few, fragrant hours, 
But only deathless things — space — stars — 
the height — 
Unloved, lone watcher of eternity. 



[99] 



THE PEOPLE OF THE BOOK 

Beneath the blight of ages bowed are they, 

Outcasts among the nations, exiled, lone, 
To whom not love of country ma}' atone 

So long it is since Hebrew Kings held sway. 
No army's triumphing return know they, 

Nor fluttered flags by inland waters blown, 
Nor patriot's pride in that which nations own, 

On, onward since the curse they flee alway. 

And yet a land have they which changeth not ; 

Mahomet knew it. He said well to see 
Them worship there, their heads raised 
reverently, 
See them watch kingdoms rise and envy not, 
And Moslem bugles call nor care to look, — 
"Behold! — the people of The Book — The 
Book!" 



[100] 



THE SUPERMAN 

" I will come back with this sun, with this earth — not 
to a new life nor a better one, but to this same life 
which I am now leading." — Nietzsche : " Also Sprach 
Zarathustra." 

Behold him poised upon the crested world, 

A diver ready to plunge back to night, 
To matter's mad clepsydra in whose might 
Recurrently twixt birth and death he's 
whirled ; 
Doomed to dissolve, forget — for aye — the 
world, 
Dropping past stars a-down the deeps of 
night, 
Wind-hurled in hollow places hard with light, 
Shapeless and senseless across stern space 
swirled ! 

And all for this! (How could it be for 

naught?) 

Once, flashing-eyed, to challenge back the sea, 

Erect, deep-throated as its tidal chime, 

Gold-garmented in dreams which ages wrought 

And fire-hearted — once — with ecstasy 

To see the sunlight on the shores of 

Time! 



[101] 



TO THE DEMETER OF GNIDOS 

(Written in the British Museum.) 

Lone waters where the ships vex not the sea, 

Dim lakes at twilight where the lilies sleep 
And blacken with their whiteness deep on deep, 

Are not serene as is the brow of thee. 
Some far-off sun of peace I can not see 

Shines still upon thy cheek and chin which 
keep 
A shadowed splendor where I fain would steep 

My soul in sunsets of serenity. 

Great Mother, on thy throne of tragic calm 
Which shakes me as the sunlight shakes the 
star, 

Just once, Great Mother, ere for aye I cease, 
Upon my futile heart let fall this balm — 

Grant me to glimpse within some gate ajar 
The pearl, pale sunrise of thy pagan peace. 



[102] 



FANCY 

Behind the frowning fortress of my will, 

Fancy, my Child, again thou shalt be free 
To weave thy daisy chain right merrily 

Within a park where never winds are chill. 
And, Fancy Dear, when worn with griefs that 
kill, 

When scornful hands stretch mocking up 
to me, 
Sweet Fancy, then my steps shall turn to thee 

And thy Dream-land behind my fortress will. 

And thou shalt never know how I grow old ! 

Daily my daisies deeper glow with gold, 
Their petals sweeter for my soul's delight. 

Ah! Fancy, when the tower wall shall ring 
With noise and strife and words fierce echoing. 

Then shall the fortress float our daisies white. 



[103] 



TRANSLATIONS 



NOCTURN 

(This is the first translation into any language of the 
famous " Nocturno " which was circulated so long in 
manuscript. It is said that every cultivated South 
American knows it by heart. This translation was made 
before the poem received book publication. The re- 
semblance to Poe's " Raven " will be noticed, which 
Silva admired greatly. The woman referred to in the 
" Nocturno " is his sister, who was famous throughout 
a continent for her beauty. Shortly after writing this, 
Silva shot and killed himself.) 

It was night time, 
Night time lonely, 
It was night time filled with murmurings of 

sweetness, 
With faint perfumes, and the music dim of 
birds' wings, 
It was night time, 
It was night time, and the darkness hymeneal, 

deep and dewy, 
Shone fantastical with fire-flies, 
By my side then, slowly, slowly, by my side then 

silent, pallid, 
As if to you there came knowledge of a future 

dark and bitter, 
Troubling hidden, secret, soul depths and the 

fibers of your being, 
By my side along the pathway of the flowers 
across the pale plain, 
You were walking, 
And the full moon 
[107] 



Then up-swinging through the sweet sky's 
serene azure shed upon us its 
white light; 
And your shadow, 
Graceful, languid, 
And my shadow 
From the moon's pale light out-floating, 
On the sand-plain sad and lonely 
Where the path wound, were united 
And made one there, 
Were united in one lone and somber shadow, 
Were united in one lone and somber shadow, 
Were united in one lone and somber shadow. 

It was night time, 
Night time lonely, 
And my heart held naught save memory of your 

death and agony ; 
Separated now forever, separated by time from 
you, by space, by the tomb 
forever, 
And by shadows black and blacker, 
Where my voice can never reach you, 
Silent, dumb, sad and alone 
By the pathway I was walking . . . 
At the lone moon dogs were baying, 
At the moon so sad and lone ; 
I heard harsh and ghostly croaking 
Of the frogs beneath the moon . . . 

[108] 



I felt chilly, and the chill was that which held 

you in your chamber, 
Held in your white, ghostly chamber, hands and 
breasts and cheeks I loved. 
Held between the snowy marble 
Of the pale, dim, plain of death. 

'Twas the chill of things sepulchral, 'twas the 
ancient chill of death, 
'Twas the chill of nothingness, 
And my shadow, 
From the moon's pale light out-floating, 
Walked there lonely, 
Walked there lonely, 
Lonely walked the pale plain o'er, 
And your shadow grown more lovely, 
Graceful, languid, 
As upon that night of spring-time — fleeting 

spring of long ago ; 
As that night time filled with murmurings of 

sweetness, 

With faint perfumes, and the music dim of 

birds' wings, 

Reached my shadow and swept with it, 

Reached my shadow and swept with it, 

Reached my shadow and swept with it — O ! 

twin shadows interlacing! 
O the interlacing shadows of twin bodies re- 
uniting with the shadows of their 
souls ! 

[109] 



O those interlacing shadows which are seeking, 

still are seeking, 
Through all night times, on, forever, for each 

other in their tears ! 

Jose Asuncion Silva. 



[110] 



TO LEUCONOE 

Do not thou ask — it is not best to know — 
what length of days the gods — 

O Leuconoe, will give to thee and me; nor call 
Chaldean 

Numbers. Far better it is I think to bear 
whatever comes ! 

Whether great Jove grants winters numerous, 
or this the last that e'er 

Shall wash opposing shores with restless foam- 
white waves Etrurian. 

Instead, Oh! be thou wise, and filter well thy 
wine, and cut thy hopes 

To fit the span of life. Even while we speak 
Time, envious, flies on. 

Seize thou the day and put not off thy joy. 

Horace. 



[Ill] 



TO PYRRHA 

What dainty youth with perfumes rare bedewed 
Caresses thee within that rose-sweet cave, 

O Pyrrha ! for whom now thou 
Dost bind back thy yellow hair 
In girlish neatness? Alas how many times 
He will bemoan thy perfidy, and since 

Innocent, wonder at seas 

Wind black and rough with storms, 
Who loving well thy glad gold moods, dost 

fondly 
Dream thee ever kind and disengaged, 

Naught knowing of treachery. 

Oh! wretched, indeed, are they 
To whom untried thou shinest fair afar ! 
Now I on Neptune's silent temple wall 

My out-worn garments have hung up 

To honor the Sea God. 

Horace. 



[112] 



TO A LITTLE MAIDEN 

Hasten not away, I pray thee, 
Just because my hair is white, 
While for thee spring blooms in beauty 
Of Love's rose colored delight ! 
Little Maiden, do not scorn me — 
Thou hast seen in gardens surely 
How 'twixt roses growing there 
One white lily standeth fair! 

Anacreon. 



[113] 



TO MYSELF 

Thou dost sing of Theban warriors, 
He of Phrygian battle cry, 
Not of arms nor mighty conquests 
But my own defeat sing I. 
Cavalry did not o'erthrow me, 
Might of foeman nor of ships, 
The forces that fought against me 
Were sweet eyes and rosy lips. 

Anacreon. 



[114] 



TO LESBIA 

Together, O! let us live and love, my Lesbia, 
And pass unheeding- by the cries of grudging 

age! 
For suns may set and rise again, but when our 

brief day dies, 
Then must we — O my Love ! — sleep through 

an endless night. 

Catullus. 



[115] 



TO MY PAGE 

Makjs haste and put the wine to cool, 
Let ice and snow no colder be! 

Ho — Page ! Bid Margot bring her stool 
And lute and sing to thee and me, 

Or we'll foot it here right royally ! 

Do thou bid Jane to hasten then, 

Her twisted hair piled gracefully 
A la a. sportive Italienne. 

Carest thou not that the day's a -wing? 

Why dost thou not make haste, I pray? 
Fill full my glass ! Begin ! — begin — 

To whom else should I drink, I say? 
I am content that this one day 

Should find no folly passing mine, 
When my Maclou comes home to stay 

No man has truer friend than mine. 

Ronsarp, 



[116] 



THE INFINITE 

Ever dear to me was this barren hill-side, 
And the hedge-row, too, that for so great a 

part 
The ultimate, far sky line here shuts off from 

my view. 
Yet while in contemplation peaceful I sit here, 
My restless thoughts keep picturing to me 
Spaces interminable, sovereign silences and pro- 
found quiet 
Which at times my heart fears not. 
But whene'er I hear the wind through this great 

plain go sweeping on, 
I compare its mighty voice with silence infinite, 
I recall eternity and death and life and all the 

sounds of living, 
And sweet indeed to me is shipwreck in such a 
sea. 

Giacomo Leopardi. 



[117] 



VENUS OF THE SWEET WATER 

(From "Canto Novo.") 

And even now I hear you by the water, O Nara, 
Hidden deep in water rushes, beneath sleepy 
lilies' sway, 
Calling out in clear canzoni audible both near 
and far, 
Calling to all human creatures in the quiet 
of mid-day ; 
June was sleeping on the meadows, and the rip- 
pling Pescara 
Murmured gently as it journeyed on its 
pebble-strewn pathway, 
Lithe and slender as the lilies, you shone white 
as any star, 
On the day I watched you bathing in the rip- 
pling Pescara. 

Oh ! the thickets of Fusili, in the tender green of 

spring, 
Spicy smelling, aromatic, full of beaded 

berries black, 
Fragrant thickets of Fusili where I heard your 

voice ring, 
Waking up the goats and cattle from their 

dozing by the stack 
Where they stood with tranquil eyelids until 

you began to sing, 

[118] 



In a silent summer stupor, wavering shadows 

on their back. 
Oh ! the thickets of Fusili, in some far-off spring 

divine 
Beneath thy refreshing shadows may I rest 

this heart of mine. 

In the burning heat of mid-day when the air 
is like a flame 
Longings then for the sweet waters of my 
home-land come to me, 
To the old Borghese Villa just so sweet of yore 
spring came, 
To the green and fragrant valleys where I 
lay supine and free; 
The music of old memories sings within me just 
the same, 
Just so sweet within the valley as in childhood 
spring will be, 
But never as of old when my days were in their 
prime 
From beneath my moving fingers flows the 
fluent sounding rhyme. 

Oh ! nevermore, my Nara, never surely shall I 
know 
The rare Homeric beauty of that wondrous 
flesh of thine, 
Nevermore in hours of dreaming feel the void 
take form and glow 
[119] 



Blotting out all other memories, all things 
save your form divine; 
Well I know your mighty mother whom men 
worshipped long ago, 

Whom no woodland dark encloses, but a 
palace stately, fine, 
From a plinth of fine-wrought marble in the 
Vatican she smiles, 

Radiant in her sovereign whiteness, all for- 
getful of her wiles. 

Only yesterday I saw her in that lofty hall of 
fame; 
All alone and vaguely dreaming there my 
vagrant footsteps turned; 
Very sweet within the palace to my eyes the 
dim light came, 
Where a race of radiant heroes in the dark- 
ness flame-like burned, 
Each one buried past all waking in his marble 
dream of fame. 
I know my immortal goddess, as in lifetime, 
oft has yearned 
For a fair, blond, youthful huntsman and a bit 
of sheltered lawn, 
For the wayward days of earth-life and the 
chilly Cyprus dawn. 

Just for me this new-born goddess, this tri- 
umphant poem of flesh 
[120] 



For the modern world preserved, takes delight 
in power to please. 
Just for me with bare feet gleaming, in the 
dawning sweet and fresh 
She comes to the rippling river, there to bathe 
at her heart's ease; 
Not so white as Aphrodite for the sun's light 
does enmesh 
In a web of gold her beauty, moulded arms 
and round white knees ; 
Not of marble is the goddess stretched beside 
me on the sand 
But some rare, sonorous metal, gilded by the 
Sun-God's hand. 

Gabriele d'Anniinzio. 



[121] 



TO THE MOUNTAINS 

(From " Fatality") 

Oh ! take me away — away to the mountains, 
Where in purity shines immemorial snow, 
Where breasting the bounds of the azure 

horizons 
The sonorous winged eagle sails stately and 

slow ! 

Where the miry ways of the low earth are not, 
Where its hated voice grieves not my heart, 
Where I feel less heavy the burden of living, 
Less heavy the cross which is mine in part. 

Oh ! take me away ! — there, there, let me love 

you, 

In face of the searching, keen winds of the 

height, 
'Mid cyclamen and the pines let me love you, 
Beneath smile of the dawn, the caress of the 

night ! 

Here grey mists of pain o'er my heart are 

sweeping, 
And my fancies die in this stifling air, 
Oh ! once let me love you, once, once, 'mid the 

mountains, 
'Mid the silence immortal ! — Oh ! take me 
there! 

Ada Negri. 
[122] 



SONG 

One time there was an aged king, 

His heart was heavy, his head was grey, 

And this same poor aged king 
Took a girl to wife one day. 

There was a page both blond and young, 
His hair was gold and his heart was gay, 

He bore the silken train that hung 
From the queen's shoulders one day. 

Have you heard the old, old song again? 

Sweet, sweet it is and very sad ! 
Both of them died — 'twas the will of men — 

Died because of the love they had. 

Heine. 



[123] 



NIGHT SONG 

I roused myself up in the night, in the night, 
Something beckoning strangely to follow; 
The streets I deserted with watchmen and light, 

And softly as I might, 

Wandered on in the night, 
Through the gate with the archway of Gothic. 

Loud roared the mill brook in its cavern of 
night, 

On the bridge rail I paused and looked down ; 

Far below of black rolling waters caught sight, 
All softly as they might, 
Rolling on through the night, 

But not once did the same wave come back. 

While above in unfoldings of numberless light, 
Whirled the stars in their mystical dance, 
And with them the moon calm of splendor and 
bright, 
All softly as they might, 
Shining on through the night, 
On, through spaces of measureless distance. 

And first I looked up, in the night, in the night, 
And then at the water looked down ; 
Woe is me! Thus to measure my days hast 
thou right? 

[124] 



Silence then with thy might, 
In the night, in the night, 
My remorse and my heart's restlessness. 

August von Platen. 



[125] 



A PAINTER 

The antique race of pensive eyes he learned to 
know 
That once trod all the barren Bretagne land, 
Monotonous, rose hued, joy drenched, where 
stand 
Great crumbling manors where the yew trees 
grow. 
On beechen hills where leaves are tangled so, 

On storm-dark autumn eves he loved to stand 
To watch the sun dip low in foam-swept sand, 
To feel from hidden reefs salt spray below. 

He painted well the sullen, splendid sea, 
Where amethyst the clouds leave trailingly, 
And foaming emerald and calm sapphire, 

And things unpaintable, earth, sea and air ; 
From out his narrow canvas gleamed like fire 
The western sky in sea sand mirrored there. 

Jose — Maria de Heredia. 



[126] 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 

They watched together from the palace height 

Beneath a sultry sky dim Egypt sleep, 
And Nilus over the black delta sweep 

To Sais and Bubastis through the night. 
The Roman felt beneath his breast-plate 
bright — 

A captive Mars who lulls a child to sleep — 
Against his heart triumphant, tremors sweep 

The form voluptuous he held that night. 

She turned her face — pale 'neath the brown 
hair's braid — 
Toward him whom strange perfumes had 
drunken made, 
And lifted up her lips, eyes dark and clear. 

Down bent the ardent Roman, saw unrolled 
In those deep eyes bright-starred with points of 
gold, 
A boundless sea where fled a fleet in fear. 

Jose — Maria de Heredia. 



[1ST] 



THE TEPIDARIUM 

Their supple limbs the myrrh has perfumed 
o'er, 

In mid-December's warmth they idling dream ; 
The chamber's bronze brazier flings fitful beam 

Of shadow light on pallid forms and floor. 
On byssus cushions — purple spread before — 

Rare, silent forms that like rose-marble gleam 
Or palest amber, stretch out, forward stream ; 

Voluptuously lined, falls linen o'er. 

Upon her flesh feeling the room's fierce heat, 
An Asian woman by the mid-most seat 

Twists her white arms in an ennui serene. 

Pale maiden groups from some Ausonian sea 

Luxuriate in the wild melody 

Of black hair falling where bronze bodies 
lean. 

Jose — Maria de Heredia. 



[128] 



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